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“Sure you can.” He opens his arms. I rest one hand on his shoulder the way we learned to do in ballroom dancing classes, a million years ago when I was thirteen. He pulls me tighter, his breath scorching my neck. “I like you, Carrie Bradshaw. I really do. Do you think you can like me back?”
“Of course,” I giggle. “If I didn’t like you, I wouldn’t dance with you.”
“I don’t believe that’s true. I think you’d dance with a man and when you got tired of him, you’d dance with another.”
“Never.” I twist my head to look at his face. His eyes are closed, his expression beatific. I still can’t fathom his new attitude. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was falling in love with me.
Or maybe he’s falling in love with the idea of falling in love with me. Maybe he wants to be in love with someone and I’ve ended up in the right place at the right time.
And suddenly, I’m nervous. If Bernard were to fall in love with me, I’d never be able to live up to his expectations. I’d end up being a disappointment. And what am I going to do if he tries to have sex with me?
“I want to know what happened,” I say, trying to change the subject. “Between you and Margie.”
“I told you what happened,” he murmurs.
“I meant this afternoon. What were you arguing about?”
“Does it matter?”
“I guess not.”
“The apartment,” he says. “We were arguing about the apartment. She wants it back and I said no.”
“She wants the apartment, too?” I ask, astounded.
“She might have convinced me if it weren’t for you.” He takes my hand and twirls me around and around. “When I saw you on that stage, I thought, That’s a sign.”
“What kind of sign?”
“A sign that I should put my life back together. Buy furniture. Make this place my home again.”
He lets go of my hand but I keep spinning and spinning until I collapse to the floor. I lie still as the bare room revolves around me and for a moment I picture myself in an insane asylum, in a white space with no furniture. I close my eyes, and when I open them again, Bernard’s face is hovering above mine. He has pretty eyelashes and a crease on either side of his mouth. A small mole is buried in the hair of his right eyebrow. “Crazy, crazy girl,” he whispers, before he leans in to kiss me.
I allow myself to be carried away by the kiss. Bernard’s mouth envelops mine, absorbing all reality until life seems to consist only of these lips and tongues engaged in a funny dance of their own.
I freeze.
And suddenly, I’m suffocating. I put my hands on Bernard’s shoulders. “I can’t.”
“Something I said?” His lips close back over mine. My heart races. An artery throbs in my neck. I wriggle away.
He sits back on his haunches. “Too intense?”
I fan my face and laugh a little. “Maybe.”
“You’re not used to guys like me.”
“I guess not!” I stand up and brush myself off.
There’s a clap of thunder outside. Bernard comes up behind me, pushing my hair aside to mouth my neck. “Have you ever made love in a thunderstorm?”
“Not yet.” I giggle, trying to put him off.
“Maybe it’s time you did.”
Oh no. Right now? Is this the moment? My body trembles. I don’t think I can do it. I’m not prepared.
Bernard massages my shoulders. “Relax.” He leans in and nibbles my earlobe.
